


Broken-Hearted Me

by BreTheWriter



Series: Thicker Than Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has spent more than two years alone, two years dealing with the pain of losing his best friend. The last thing he ever expected was to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in his accustomed place before the fire in Baker Street. The two men attempt to continue their friendship and working relationship where they left off...but when another player enters the drama, and John falls hard, how will their friendship change--and will it endure?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty House

_No, I don't think time is gonna heal this broken heart_  
 _No, I don't see how it can if it's broken all apart_  
 _A million miracles could never stop the pain_  
 _Or put all the pieces together again..._

### Chapter 1: The Empty House

John woke up an hour later than he had intended to the sounds of rain lashing at the windows. As usual, the first thing he did was reach for his cell phone--while he usually kept the volume turned on at night, and it was right by his bed, he always checked it as soon as he awoke to see if, by some chance, he had slept through getting a text. He acknowledged to himself that it was unlikely; he slept fitfully, rarely getting into a deep enough sleep that he felt really rested the next morning, and would probably have woken up even if he'd set the phone to vibrate. But he checked anyway. There were no new messages. His face fell, although he'd really expected no less. 

It was going to be one of _those_ days, he thought. He could feel it in his bones. 

Dragging himself out of bed, he got dressed, pocketed his phone, and went downstairs. Instinctively, he glanced at the two armchairs by the fireplace, as though expecting one of them to be occupied. 

_Stop being such an idiot, John,_ he scolded himself. _It's nearly three years now. You know better._

He fixed himself a cup of tea and stood in the kitchen, sipping it, dragging himself into proper consciousness and thinking. What day was it? Tuesday. One of his days off--he only worked at the clinic three days a week, unless they really needed him. Fifteenth of May. Wasn't that his grandparents' anniversary? No, that was the seventeenth. He'd have to remember to call them Thursday. Have to remind Harry, too. They were meeting up for lunch today. Probably make them both miserable, it usually did, but for the last eighteen months they'd had a standing lunch date on the fifteenth. It had been his therapist's idea, back before he stopped going to see her, before he'd finally told her that the sessions were just wasting her time, and his. 

Sighing, John rinsed out his cup and put it back in the cabinet. He really needed to do some grocery shopping; there wasn't anything in the flat except for a couple of tea bags, half a packet of soda crackers, a bit of cheese, and a single solitary apple that was starting to get mushy. It didn't matter much, as he didn't eat a lot, but Mrs. Hudson tended to nag when he let the pantry get into this sort of state. Maybe he'd pick up a few things on his way home that evening. 

He fired up his laptop and checked his blog. He didn't post on it very often anymore--well, there was no point, really--but people still commented occasionally. Sometimes those comments got him inflamed enough that he would write up a post. Today, though, there was no activity. He clicked off the blog and went to check his email. 

A headline on the client's home page caught his attention: _Mysterious Death of Prominent London Businessman._ He clicked the link and scanned the article. Most of it was familiar to him, of course. Gregory Lestrade had stopped by the clinic the day before, right after closing time, and suggested visiting a pub about halfway between Baker Street and Lestrade's home. Over a pint, they had discussed the Ronald Adair murder, its mysterious nature and the precious few clues Lestrade (who was in charge of the investigation) had been able to gather. The article had obviously been published the night before; no new information was forthcoming. 

John sighed as he powered down the laptop. Lestrade had offered a tentative invitation for him to come out to the crime scene that morning, and John had thanked him but turned him down. He had given Lestrade his thoughts and observations on the case, for what they were worth, but he wasn't sure what good he might be if he turned up in person. Left unspoken between the two of them was the thought that it wasn't really John the London police wanted--or needed--even if they wouldn't admit it themselves. 

It was just going on eleven when he finally left the flat. Mrs. Hudson was stepping out her own door at the same time. She gave him a warm smile. "Good morning, love." 

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, stopping and giving her as sincere a smile as he could. He knew she worried about him--a lot--so he usually tried to act as normal as he could around her. He doubted she was fooled. 

"Lunch with your sister?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John nodded. "Tell her I said hello." 

"I will." John smiled again and headed out into the streets of London. Lunch was going to be miserable, but at least he had his lesson to look forward to afterwards. 

* * *

It was dark by the time John returned to Baker Street, a bag with a few essentials in one hand and a cloth case in the other. He'd stayed late after his lesson to practice. As usual, he hadn't noticed how much time had passed until the widowed Russian woman had opened the door to the practice room and invited him to stay for dinner. He'd declined; Mrs. Eppleman was a fine teacher but a lousy cook, and he really didn't feel like company today. 

Instead, he'd stopped at the market to pick up a few essentials, nothing serious, just enough to keep body and soul together, as his grandmother always said. Most of the time at the shop had been spent staring at the milk display, trying to will himself to just pick up a bottle and leave. Milk was the one thing he and Sherlock seemed to constantly run out of, and every time he went to buy more he thought of his friend and hurt. 

The vestiges of the mildly peaceful mood he'd cultivated that afternoon vanished as he headed towards Baker Street. Alone. 

He paused on the sidewalk in front of 221B and looked up instinctively. There was a light in the window right at the top, shining bravely across the pavement in the gathering gloom. Even during the daylight, it hadn't been turned off in more than two years. John knew he was being silly, leaving it on, but it was a sort of childish faith, like checking his phone every morning and looking at the armchair every time he passed it. 

It was so _stupid_. Sherlock was dead. He had committed suicide for reasons that still weren't clear to John. He was dead and buried. John had _seen_ him die. He'd attended his funeral. He'd even read the autopsy report, signed by Molly Hooper, whose abilities were beyond reproach and whose conclusions were beyond doubt. He visited the gravesite faithfully every Sunday. 

So why did he still insist on doing these little things, just in case Sherlock came home? 

Sighing, John brushed away the tears threatening to gather in his eyes and let himself in the front door, then climbed the stairs to the flat. He shifted the bag to the other hand and fished out his key. Before he put it in the lock, however, he paused, a frown crossing his face. 

The lock was new. Mrs. Hudson had had the locks replaced just a couple of weeks before. But now there were a few fresh scratches around the keyhole. John knew for a fact they hadn't been there that morning. 

Cautiously, he tried the knob. The door was still locked. Whoever had attempted to pick it--for it was obvious that was what had happened--either hadn't made it in or had locked it behind him. John paused for a moment, weighing his options. He could go down to Mrs. Hudson's flat and call the police. He could text Lestrade a photo of the lock and ask for advice. Or he could just go in. The latter won. After all, a housebreaker probably wouldn't still be in there. 

John unlocked the door as quietly as he could, just in case. Everything seemed in order. Nothing was out of place. There were no suspicious footprints in the carpet. John relaxed and headed for the kitchen to put the groceries away. 

"You've changed the locks." 

John froze. What little colour there was in his face drained out of it. The voice was a deep and achingly familiar baritone, one that belonged in the flat but shouldn't have been there at the same time. Slowly, he turned towards the armchairs by the fireplace. A figure sat in the shadows there, one leg folded across the other knee, hands steepled. 

"Burglary in the area," John said, only half-paying attention, his brain trying to process what his eyes were seeing. "Mrs. Hudson changed them around the end of April." 

"Ah. Well, I suppose that accounts for it, then." The figure unfolded. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to switch on the lights? It is rather dark in here." 

Moving on autopilot, John reached for the switch nearest him and turned on the light. Standing before him, a slight half-smile on his face, was the man who had never been far from John's mind in the last two years, the man who had occupied his mind almost constantly that evening, the man whose death had nearly destroyed his life. 

It was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The Empty Hearse

### Chapter 2: The Empty Hearse

John's eyes scanned Sherlock rapidly. He didn't look much different than the last time John had seen him alive. Perhaps a trifle heavier, a faint scar on his right cheek, a black eye just beginning to fade on the left side. But he was there, and he was _alive._

Sherlock was making a similar scan of John. His smile disappeared, to be replaced with a look of concern. "John?" 

Tears sprang to John's eyes. "Sherlock," he murmured, his voice ragged with emotion. "It's really you." 

Sherlock moved towards him. John let the bags slip from his fingers and moved forward as well. They embraced one another, holding each other tightly. John felt the tears begin rolling down his face and made no effort to check them. 

At last they separated. Sherlock looked at John anxiously. "My God, John, you look awful. When was the last time you ate anything?" 

"I had lunch with Harry today." John was tempted to leave it at that, but he knew Sherlock wasn't going to let him. "I admit I haven't been exactly eating well lately, though. Or sleeping well." 

Sherlock's shoulders sagged. "John, I..." he began, then stopped. "Here, let me help you with that." 

He bent down and picked up the bag of groceries. John retrieved his case and set it on the bookshelf where he'd been keeping it, then followed Sherlock into the kitchen and began putting the things away. Sherlock made a noise that John had never heard before, and when he turned, he saw a look of utter shock on the man's face. "How long has it been like this?" he demanded. 

John didn't bother pretending he didn't know what Sherlock meant. "A week, maybe two. I lose track." 

Sherlock looked both horrified and genuinely upset. He reached out and put a hand on John's shoulder. "John, I...I'm so sorry. If I'd known..." He shook his head. 

John swallowed back the first reply that sprang to his mind--that Sherlock would have known, if he had bothered to ask. Instead, he merely said, "Sherlock, _how_ did you...?" 

"Come sit down and I'll tell you everything." 

John followed Sherlock into the living room and sank into his armchair. Sherlock sat opposite him, in his own chair, and John felt a lump in his throat at the sight. How many times over the last two years had he imagined that chair filled? Constantly. And yet he'd never dreamed...well, yes, he had, hadn't he? That was what the phone was all about, the light, the fact that he hadn't rearranged the flat or told Mycroft to go ahead and remove Sherlock's things. It was about the hope, the dream, that someday Sherlock would come home again. 

"You want to know how I survived the fall," Sherlock began. "Well--" 

But John held up a hand, cutting him off. "No. I know how you survived the fall--or at least, I can guess. I'm a doctor, remember? It's all to do with how you landed, the fact that the building wasn't higher, the trajectory of your fall. You'd hardly have been the first person to survive a fall like that--or a jump, or whatever it was." He raised his eyes to Sherlock's. "No, what I want to know is how you managed to fake your death. Sherlock, I felt your pulse. You were _dead._ How did you manage that?" 

Sherlock smiled faintly, and John noted the approval in his eyes. "Well done," he murmured. In his normal tone of voice, he added, "It was really quite simple--a lot simpler than ensuring I survived the fall. A thousand things could have gone wrong with that. But I stopped my pulse with this." He reached into a pocket and withdrew an object. 

John frowned, studying it as Sherlock held it in his slender fingers. "A ball?" 

"Old trick. Small hard ball held under the arm. Stops the pulse. To all appearances, I was dead." Sherlock pocketed the ball again. "I had to do _something._ " 

"Why?" John said quietly. It was the one thing he'd struggled to understand for almost two and a half years. 

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied. "He offered me a choice--although it wasn't much of one, really." 

"Well, it can't have been between dying a hero or living a fraud, or you wouldn't have tried to convince me you made everything up before you jumped." John laced his fingers together. "What was it?" 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "My life--or yours," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "He told me that if I didn't fall--if his people didn't see me fall--then they had orders to kill the people I cared about most. To kill _you._ " He opened his eyes, and John was startled to see tears beginning to form in them. "John, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. And I never thought it would take this long before I would be able to come back. With Moriarty dead, I was sure that what remained of his lieutenants would be rounded up quickly--after all, without his genius to lead them, surely they would have been caught. I underestimated them, I suppose." 

"Moriarty would hardly have had stupid men working for him," John murmured, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "Not nearly as intelligent as him, but certainly smarter than the average member of the public." 

"True." Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I...it wasn't safe to contact you. I was afraid you'd become a target if Moriarty's men knew I lived. I did visit your blog once or twice, but...I couldn't bring myself to comment, even anonymously. The only thing that kept me going was knowing that you were alive and safe, even though I couldn't contact you." He looked up. "Have you...have you seen Mycroft lately?" 

John hesitated. Now that he had heard Sherlock's explanation of why he hadn't been in touch all these years--why he had faked his death--certain things made sense that hadn't made sense before. He knew, instinctively, that Mycroft had been Sherlock's only contact with England, and that probably through a chain of proxy servers and double-blind encryptions. And he knew, or thought he knew, why Sherlock was asking if he'd seen Mycroft. He didn't want to hurt his friend. 

But he could never lie to Sherlock. "Yeah. He, er, he stops by once every couple of months or so. Mostly to talk with Mrs. Hudson, but he usually looks in on me. The last time I saw him was last Sunday." 

Sherlock closed his eyes again, and John noticed his jaw tense. "I may have to kill him," he said in a low tone. "I asked him...I _specifically_ requested that he let me know how you were, truthfully. If I'd known..." He trailed off, then opened his eyes and looked at John pleadingly. "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like this." 

John swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I forgive you," he said softly, "if there's anything to forgive. I...I won't pretend there's not a part of me that wasn't angry with you for leaving me. But..." A smile--a real, genuine smile--crossed his face. "But you came back, Sherlock, and that's the important part." 

Sherlock's eyes softened as he returned the smile. "You always knew I was still alive, didn't you? That's why you kept everything the way it was." 

"In fact, no," John said, the smile fading. "I knew you were dead. But I...I _believed,_ deep down, that you were still alive. That's why, as you say, I didn't change anything. Except the locks, and that wasn't my choice--that was Mrs. Hudson. Like I said, there was a burglary down the street, and she changed the locks to ones that weren't so easy to pick." 

"You always did have stronger faith than I do," Sherlock murmured. "I would have needed proof." 

A bitter laugh slipped through John's lips before he could stop himself. _Your faith was strong, but you needed proof..._

"What?" Sherlock looked concerned. 

"It's...nothing. Don't worry about it." 

Sherlock eyed him for a moment. John was bracing himself for the next question when his phone suddenly buzzed. Startled, he pulled it out to discover a text from Lestrade. _Ronald Adair's murderer in custody. Well done you._

"Is something the matter?" Sherlock asked. 

John shook his head, looking up. "No...no, nothing's wrong. It's just Lestrade." 

Sherlock frowned. "He's still bothering you?" 

"He's not _bothering _me. We're friends." John shrugged. "He was just letting me know he found--have you been following the Ronald Adair case?"__

Sherlock looked startled. "Of course. That's why I came back." 

John frowned. "What?" 

"Ronald Adair was a compulsive gambler--" 

"I know that. And not a very good one. He did all right wagering on sporting events and games of chance--or at least no worse than anyone else--but when it came to games of skill, like card games, he had none. Especially when it came to Bridge, which was his usual game. He seldom won a hand, and in those cases it was usually due to an under-confident player not calling his bluff. _Never_ a game." John drew a breath. "That's why he was killed, of course. The afternoon before he died, he'd been playing at one of the local clubs, and he and his partner had won the whole rubber. Even Adair knew there was something up about that. He must have realised his partner had cheated." 

Sherlock stared at John, his mouth open slightly. "So you think..." 

"That his partner killed him? I'm sure of it," John replied. "Lestrade just confirmed that, but I was sure of it even before. I know the club where they were playing, and the current president is _incredibly_ strict about cheating. Adair must have gone to his partner and confronted him, threatening to turn him in to the club president if he didn't immediately resign his position. When he was killed, there was a piece of paper at hand with a lot of notations on it, and his winnings were sitting right next to it. He was probably trying to work out how he could return the money to the people he'd won it off of without revealing to them that his partner had cheated them out of it." 

"And you know who the partner is, do you?" 

"No, actually, Lestrade didn't tell me that part. But I can guess his type. A retired man, or semi-retired, probably ex-military. Might have been dishonourably discharged, or resigned to avoid it. Wasn't able to re-integrate into the civilian life, so he makes a living from his pension and whatever he earns from gambling. From the fact that he was a member at one of the most exclusive gentleman's clubs in London, it's evident he has extravagant tastes, so he probably lives far beyond the means of the pension, which, as you know, is enough for the essentials, but not much more than that. Losing his place at the club would have been a great blow to him, and--" John faltered at the look Sherlock was giving him. "Did I say something wrong?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "John--" 

Just then, both men were startled by a knock on the door. John glanced at Sherlock anxiously. "I don't know who that is." 

Sherlock hesitated, then shrugged with what John could tell was feigned carelessness. "Whoever it is, they'll simply have to be the second person to learn I'm back in England." 

"As you wish." John winced inwardly as the words left his mouth and hurried to the door to cover his confusion. He tried to put the thought of the green-spined paperback book on his nightstand out of his mind. 

Standing on the doorstep, to John's mixed surprise and dismay, was a very serious-looking Lestrade. "John, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've just come from interrogating the murderer of Ronald Adair and he said something that I think you ought to know." 

John swallowed. "Er, why don't you come in...?" he began. 

Lestrade shook his head. "I can't stay too long, I've got to get home. The wife's waiting on me. But...well, as I said, we caught Adair's murderer. You were right--he was Adair's partner at the Bridge table that day, and he was exactly what you described. Fellow's name is Colonel Sebastian Moran. But..." He took a deep breath. "He seems to think that Sherlock is still alive." 

John hesitated, then nodded. "I know. I got home ten minutes ago to find him sitting in our living room." 

_"What?"_ Lestrade went pale. 

"Look, if you don't believe me, come on in. He's sitting in his armchair." 

"It's not that I don't believe you. That's just the trouble. Damn!" Lestrade bit his lip. "Of all the times for him to come back...and you were the one to twig me onto the right answer, too. It _was_ the right answer--no doubt about that. We have a confession, the murder weapon, everything. But we didn't get the confession until _after_ the arrest." 

John was about to ask Lestrade what he was rambling about...and then it hit him. "Damn. Damn!" 

"Exactly," Lestrade agreed. He chewed his lip for a moment longer. "Is there any way you can prove he wasn't here yesterday?" 

"I live alone," John pointed out. "Or did. Mrs. Hudson might be able to swear she didn't see him come up the stairs, but then I don't know if _she_ knows he's back. And he won't have any kind of ticket in his own name. He's too careful for that. If he traveled, he probably did it in disguise." He shook his head. "I have witnesses for the fact that I left here at eight yesterday morning and who can vouch for my whereabouts until you dropped me off at ten last night, but who's to say he didn't come back the night before?" 

Lestrade sighed. "Try to keep him in here and out of sight for another day or two. I'll see if I can get Moran before a judge as quickly as possible. And I promise to keep the two of you out of it, if I can." 

"I appreciate that," John said softly. 

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "I won't come in--as long as I don't see him, I can't say I know for sure he's really back. But I'll keep in touch with you, and the moment I'm sure we've nailed the bastard, I'll let you know he can come out." 

"Thanks, Greg." 

Lestrade nodded and sloped off. John watched him for a bit, then closed the door. As an afterthought, he locked it before returning to the living room. 

Sherlock wore the expression that said he had been once again frustrated by the accoustics of the flat. "Who was that?" 

"Lestrade," John answered. "You'll need to stay in here for a couple of days. Just until Moran goes before a judge." He looked up at Sherlock. "He knows you're alive. He told the police that you were still alive. I'm not sure what else he said, but I don't think he knew you were back in London yet." 

"Moran," Sherlock muttered. "So it _was_ Colonel Moran who killed Ronald Adair?" 

John nodded. "He confessed. They have the murder weapon, too. But, Sherlock, they didn't get either of those things until _after_ they arrested him, based on what I told Lestrade last night. He's going to try his hardest to keep us out of it, but if anyone finds out that you're alive and back in London, and that I'm the one who told Lestrade what to look for..." He trailed off. 

Sherlock frowned. "That shouldn't have anything to do with Moran's conviction. He's a murderer." 

"Have you forgotten--or maybe you didn't know. After you 'died,' the press started calling you a fake. You've been accused of falsifying crime scenes, of manipulating confessions." John looked up at his friend again. "If anyone thinks you had anything to do with Moran's arrest, it'll plant doubt that his confession was genuine. He'll get off." 

"But _you're_ not a fake." 

"But I'm your friend. Who would believe I came up with those deductions on my own? The public would say that you filtered your deductions through me to Lestrade because you knew no one would take you seriously." 

Sherlock looked stricken. "I never wanted my reputation to tarnish yours, John." 

John couldn't hold back a slight smile. "It hasn't--yet. I'm only saying that it could have. Anyway, I give it a month before you're a hero in the eyes of the public again. You know how the press is." 

"I do indeed." Sherlock smiled, sitting back. "I must say, I'm quite impressed at the deductions you made. Had you ever met Colonel Moran before?" 

John glowed inwardly at the praise, all the more cherished for being so rare. "No, never. I didn't even know his name until Lestrade mentioned it a couple minutes ago. I'm guessing you know him pretty well, though." 

Sherlock laughed. "We've never met in person, but I know him by reputation. He was one of Moriarty's lieutenants." 

"I'd keep that to myself, if I were you." 

"Don't worry, John. At any rate, he's all you described. More, he's a superb hunter, of a kind not commonly seen anymore, and an incredibly dishonest man. Honestly, cheating at cards is the least of his crimes, and this one murder hardly scratches the surface." Sherlock bit his lip thoughtfully. "I confess that I'm both curious and concerned as to how he learned I was still alive." 

"Me, too," John answered. It hadn't occurred to him before, but Sherlock was right. How had the man known Sherlock was still alive? And if he'd known...why hadn't he tried to follow through on Moriarty's threats? 

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "Enough about all of this. Tell me about yourself. What have you been up to for the past two years?" 

John smiled faintly. "Not much. I work at the clinic Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I have lunch with Harry on the fifteenth of every month. I go out for drinks with Lestrade every once in a while. I--" He hesitated. "I picked up an old hobby of mine that I gave up when I joined the Army. That's it, really." 

Sherlock gave him a steady look. "You've stopped seeing your therapist?" 

"More than a year ago. It was a waste of her time and mine." 

"You should have kept going. I noticed your cane leaning in the corner--you've been using it again. I see you were able to go without it today, but perhaps that was simply because you were meeting Harry and didn't want her to see you use it." Sherlock's eyes flicked over John. "You admitted you have neither been eating or sleeping well. You've lost a good deal of weight--I don't think you have a spare ounce of fat anywhere on your body. You were incredibly pale when you first turned up the light, although I'll admit your colour looks better now than it did at first. Your clothes are getting a bit threadbare in places. I'm even prepared to swear that your hair is starting to turn grey. She could have _helped_ you, John." 

John felt a lump come to his throat. He shook his head. "I couldn't do what she was telling me to do, Sherlock. I wasn't ready to move on. She wanted me to change my number, to leave Baker Street, to disassociate myself from everyone I'd met through you--in short, she wanted me to start over, start a new life that you had no part in, and I couldn't do that." 

"It might have been best for you," Sherlock said softly. 

John looked down at his hands. "I tried," he admitted. "I did leave London for a few weeks--I went to visit an Army friend of mine who lives in Sussex. It didn't work. Being away from London--away from Baker Street--just made things worse." 

Sherlock swallowed. He glanced at his watch. "It's late. Perhaps you ought to go to bed. Especially if you have to be at the clinic tomorrow." 

John hesitated. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid." 

"I promise." 

"Then...all right." John stood and headed for the stairs. At the edge of the room, he paused and turned back. "Sherlock?" 

"Mmm?" Sherlock looked up from whatever middle distance he was staring into. 

A smile crossed John's face. "Welcome home." 


	3. Early Morning London Skyline

John woke up and automatically reached for his phone. The events of the previous night seemed like a confused dream. Had Sherlock really come back, or had John conjured up the scene out of a desperate desire to see his friend after a long day? It wouldn't have been the first time. Often he would look up from a book, or turn around quickly, and seem to see Sherlock standing behind him with that amused look on his face, or sitting opposite him contemplating the fire, or lying on the sofa tossing a ball idly up and down. Sometimes they even had conversations. Once or twice Sherlock had touched him to make a point. Admittedly, he had never explained how he had faked his death before, but John supposed that anything was possible. 

The phone was silent--there had been no new messages. And John realised, with a kind of detached surprise, that he actually felt rested. He'd slept through the entire night, and slept heavily. If his conversation last night _was_ a hallucination--and in the daylight, that seemed pretty likely--at least it had given him enough peace that he was able to get a decent night's rest. He got out of bed and got dressed. 

On his way to the kitchen, he glanced at the lamp in the front window and noticed that it was out. A momentary flash of panic gripped him. _When did it go out? How long has this window been dark? Oh, God, what if...?_

John shook his head, trying to get a grip on himself. _The bulb's burnt out. That's all. Probably some time this morning. It's a bright enough day--you can replace the bulb before you leave._ First order of business was a cup of tea. 

It was then he became aware of sounds coming from the kitchen--rustlings, the soft clatter of cups, and the whistle of the tea kettle. Someone was in there, heating up water. If it weren't for the fact that it was seven o'clock in the morning, he might have thought it was Mrs. Hudson, but she rarely got up this early and almost never came into the upstairs flat uninvited. 

John went into the kitchen to see Sherlock, busying himself with the kettle and a pair of cups. Unexpectedly, his heart gave a lurch. _It wasn't a dream,_ he thought, feeling as though the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. _He's really here._

Sherlock turned and offered John a smile. "Morning, John. Tea?" 

"Thank you." John accepted the outstretched cup and took a sip, feeling its warmth spread through his body. 

Sherlock leaned his hip against the counter, sipping his own tea. "I hope I'm not disturbing your morning routine," he said conversationally. "I was simply awake early." 

"Not at all," John assured him. "This is more or less what I do first thing in the morning. Have a cup of tea and try to sort out what I'm doing for the day." 

"And what _are_ you doing today?" Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow. 

John took another sip of tea and began voicing aloud the thought process he normally went through silently. "Today's Wednesday. My long day at the clinic--nine to seven. Sixteenth of May--no appointments on the calendar, nothing I really need to do. Have to remember to call my grandparents tomorrow, though. Probably ought to text Harry, make sure she made it home all right yesterday, but that can wait until my lunch hour--she won't appreciate me waking her up this early." He couldn't help but give a small sigh. "She's probably hung over. Anyway, I should be home some time between eight and nine, depending on how the Tube is. I'll stop and pick up dinner on my way." 

"I could meet you--" 

" _No,_ Sherlock. You promised." John held up a finger warningly. 

Sherlock pouted slightly. "Fine. I hope you realise I'm going to be driven insane, having to stay cooped up in this flat for more than a day or so." 

"As if you weren't insane to begin with." 

"Well, there is that." Sherlock was obviously trying to conceal a smile as he looked into his cup of tea. "I suppose I'll find _something_ to do." 

"Preferably something quiet," John begged. 

"Yes, we wouldn't want the whole neighbourhood to know I'm back, after all." 

John suddenly remembered the lamp and set down his mug. "I'd better replace that bulb before I go," he said, mostly to himself. 

"What bulb?" 

"The light in the front window..." John trailed off as he remembered that Sherlock had still been awake when he'd gone to bed the night before. "Wait. Did you turn it off last night?" 

Sherlock looked at John as if he'd lost his senses. "Of course. It was _incredibly_ warm, by the way. How long had it been on?" 

"Two years and eleven months, give or take a day or two," John replied softly. 

Sherlock set his cup on the counter with an audible _thunk_. The look on his face was one John couldn't quite read. "You left it on...all this time?" 

John nodded. "I...I told you last night, I never really believed you were dead. I always left a light on for you while you were out late on your cases. It just seemed right to leave a light on for you." 

"You could have set the flat on fire." 

"I used the lowest wattage I safely could, and I check it over at least once a week. I'm not _completely_ stupid." 

"I never meant--" Sherlock looked abashed. "I'm just...surprised, I suppose." 

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyway, I ought to turn it back on before I go." 

"Why? I'm home." 

"Yes, but no one's supposed to know that," John reminded Sherlock. "And most of the neighbours know why that light's always on. To the point that Charlie makes a point of stopping me and letting me know when it burns out." 

Sherlock frowned. "Which one is Charlie?" 

John smiled a little. "Older gentleman. Lives across the street and two houses down. Tallish, usually wears a tweed suit and a lad's cap, walks with a cane on occasion. He and his wife have a Scottish terrier." 

"Ah, yes," Sherlock mused. "He teaches history at the local secondary school, yes? A second career for him, of course." 

"Third," John corrected him. "He was in the Army, then became a security guard at a university when he mustered out." 

Sherlock smiled. "Perhaps I should try actually striking up an acquaintance with people on occasion." 

"Perhaps." John finished his tea and went to rinse the cup out. 

"I'll take care of that. You ought to get going." Sherlock took the cup from John's hand. "I'll see you this evening, I suppose." 

John nodded. "Try not to get too bored." 

"I will." Sherlock hesitated. "Be careful, John. I've got a feeling..." He didn't finish his sentence. 

John knew better than to dismiss his friend's hunches. "That cuts both ways, you know. But I'll watch my step." He turned for the door. "See you later." 

He snapped on the light and headed out the door for work, hoping he didn't look any different than normal.

* * *

"All set. See you Friday, Dr. Watson." 

"Right." John nodded to the receptionist and headed out the door. He was tired, more tired than he cared to admit even to himself. Usually he didn't mind, as it meant he was more likely to sleep through the night and not to be troubled with nightmares, but somehow he didn't want Sherlock to see him like this. He didn't know if he would be able to act well enough to fool the man. First things first, though, he needed to get something for dinner. 

"Ah, John, there you are." 

John turned in surprise to see Lestrade standing next to the entrance, an expression of studied casualness on his face. He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Nothing's ever easy, is it?" he murmured to no one in particular. "What happened now, Greg?" 

"I was in the area and I knew it was your time to get off, so I thought I'd offer you a ride home," Lestrade said, forcing a smile. "Knowing you, there's not a lot of food in your flat, so I picked up some Chinese takeaway. Plenty for three. Maybe we could--" 

"Lestrade," John interrupted. 

Lestrade sighed. "He got away." 

John felt the blood drain from his face. No need to ask who "he" was. " _What?_ How?" 

"I'll explain later, but first let's get you home, shall we?" Lestrade gestured towards his car. 

Twenty minutes later, the two were heading up the steps to 221B. The flat was quiet, but John couldn't decide if he found that reassuring or ominous. It either meant that Sherlock was keeping his promise...or that he wasn't there. He inserted his key into the lock and said over his shoulder to Lestrade, "I missed this." 

"Missed what?" Lestrade asked, looking at the white takeaway boxes in his hands. 

John felt a half-smile tug at his mouth. "Not knowing what I'm going to be walking into." 

He started to call out when he opened the door, but checked himself. They hadn't even told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was alive yet; he didn't want to make her worry he was losing his mind. Instead, he waited until he had closed the door behind Lestrade before calling in a voice he knew wouldn't carry beyond the door, "Sherlock?" 

Sherlock's dark, curly head popped up over the back of the sofa, a smile on his face. The smile slipped slightly when his eyes focused on Lestrade. "Hello, John. Did you have a good day?" 

"As good as can be expected, I suppose." John indicated Lestrade. "He brought dinner. And news." 

Sherlock joined them in the kitchen, eyeing Lestrade warily. "Lestrade." 

"Hello, Sherlock," Lestrade said almost absently as he set down the takeaway boxes. He glanced up at Sherlock, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I must say you look remarkably healthy for a dead man." 

"And you look remarkably depressed for a man who has the worst of Moriarty's lieutenants in custody," Sherlock replied. 

Lestrade shot John a look. "You didn't tell me that!" 

"I didn't know until last night," John protested. "I didn't even know his _name_ until you told me." 

Lestrade took a deep breath and turned back to Sherlock. "If you're referring to Colonel Moran...the truth is, I no longer have him in custody. He escaped." 

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock's eyes sparked with something John couldn't identify. 

John got out the dishes as Lestrade explained. "He was supposed to appear in court today to plead on the Ronald Adair case. We all expected him to plead not guilty, of course. I had two men escorting him the whole way." He shook his head in disgust. "The three of them got into the lift in the lobby. When it got to the top floor, both officers were unconscious and the handcuffs were empty. Moran was gone." 

"Surely there was a camera in the elevator," Sherlock began. 

"It was disabled shortly before Moran arrived. Either we've got the worst luck in the world, or someone tampered with it. My money is on the latter." Lestrade ran his fingers through his short grey hair. "Unfortunately, I suspect it was one of the two officers I sent with him. Damn! I wish I'd known he was one of Moriarty's men. I'd have escorted him personally." 

John pointed to the kitchen table. "Eat first. Self-pity later." 

Lestrade looked amused. "This coming from _you?_ " 

A blush rose in John's cheeks and he had to look away. "Shut up," he mumbled, but without any real conviction. 

"Hey, I'm sorry, John, you know I didn't mean it like that." Lestrade's voice was gentle and sincere. 

_How_ did _you mean it then?_ John thought, but he looked up and managed a smile. "I know. Come on, let's eat." 


	4. Rien et Tout

For a while, there was silence as the three men ate. John was a little surprised at Sherlock's appetite--he usually treated food as more or less optional, and often John had had to nag him to even have a bit of toast in the mornings. But here he was eating as though...well, as though he were a normal human being. Then again, he hadn't really eaten very normally himself for the last couple of years. Usually when he did, it was because someone--like Lestrade--nagged him, or force-fed him, or stood over him with a baseball bat. He was surprised to discover that he was actually hungry. 

Finally, Sherlock set down his fork. "So what are you going to do now?" he asked. "About Moran." 

Lestrade set his fork down as well. "Try to recapture him, of course. We'll try to detect his movements, anticipate where he might be at any given moment." He hesitated. "The trouble is...now I think I might know where to look for him. And I don't like it." 

John bit his lip. He was pretty sure he knew what Lestrade was thinking--had known it, really, since he saw the man's face outside the clinic. "But does he..." he began. 

"I don't know," Lestrade answered. "He wouldn't say one way or the other. He certainly _implied_ that he did, but he might've just been blowing smoke. If he does..." He trailed off. 

"You know, you two get angry at me when I leave out significant portions of the conversation," Sherlock observed. 

"Yes, but you're usually clever enough to fill in the blanks on your own," Lestrade retorted. "We mere mortals usually can't. All right, I'll fill in the blanks." He pointed at John. "He asked if Moran _knows where you are._ The man knows you're alive, but does he know you're back in London, let alone back on Baker Street? As I said, he implied that he knew where to find you. If he does..." He trailed off again, spreading out his hands. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, as if inviting Lestrade to continue. John bit his lip, then softly put it into words. "If he knows where to find you, he'll likely come after you." 

"As long as you stay inside--and stay away from the windows--you ought to be fine," Lestrade said, but he didn't sound particularly convinced. 

"Was Ronald Adair outside, or anywhere near a window?" Sherlock demanded. "Did the murderer enter his room at all?" 

"No," Lestrade admitted. "And that bothers me." He gestured towards the windows facing the street. "From what we've been able to determine, he shot Adair from a distance of at least two hundred yards. And the building directly across from you is still vacant. We can put a watch on it, but it won't be subtle, and if Moran doesn't know you're here, he'll likely figure it out." 

"Let him," Sherlock said. 

John looked up, surprised. "What?" 

"Let him figure it out. In fact, perhaps I should come right out and admit I'm still alive, and that I've returned. Use the media to our advantage. He'd have to make his play quickly, and then you'd be able to recapture him." 

Lestrade frowned. "You can't count on cheating death twice." 

Sherlock shrugged. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve." 

"Like you did when you jumped off that roof?" Lestrade said icily. "How did you do that, by the way?" 

Sherlock pulled the black rubber ball out of his pocket and placed it on the table. "Small ball under the arm. Stops the pulse." 

"And you just _happened_ to be carrying it when you met with Moriarty, did you?" Lestrade crossed his arms. "And what about the autopsy? Molly Hooper signed your death certificate. She wouldn't have done that if you weren't damned well dead--unless you'd already worked something out with her." 

John's breath seemed to solidify in his chest. How could he have been so stupid? He'd forgotten all about the autopsy--and it hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock might have been planning to fake his death, that it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing. Of _course_ Molly would have had to be involved. It explained the way she sometimes looked at him when they crossed paths--as though she'd purchased a Christmas present eight months in advance and was starting to wonder if she'd made the right decision or if she should try again. 

Sherlock looked uneasy. "I...yes, I'd asked her for a favour. I knew what Moriarty was planning--that he would probably want my death. Our plan was a last resort. I'd hoped there would be a way around it. But what he was offering in exchange for my death...I couldn't sacrifice that." 

"And _what_ , exactly, did he offer you?" 

"Three lives," Sherlock said quietly. "The lives of the three people I care about the most. If his people didn't see me die, three of them would be waiting around London with guns. I have no doubt that Moran was one of those people." 

John and Lestrade looked at one another. Lestrade's expression was unreadable, but John's mind was mentally ticking through all the people Sherlock knew. He knew that he was one of the three, but the other two... 

Lestrade spoke first. "Mycroft or Molly?" 

Sherlock looked startled and puzzled. "I'm sorry?" 

"Which one was the third--Mycroft or Molly?" Lestrade repeated. "You said three people. One of them was obviously John. Another was Mrs. Hudson. I've seen the three of you together. You're a family. An odd one, to be sure, but still a family. That only leaves one other person for Moriarty to have threatened. I'm curious as to whether it was your brother or Dr. Hooper." 

"Neither," Sherlock admitted. He looked Lestrade in the eyes. "The third person Moriarty threatened was you." 

John fought down a smile at the look on Lestrade's face. It was clear that it had never crossed the inspector's mind that Sherlock thought of him as anything other than a nuisance, or a man barely to be tolerated so that he could make the actual arrests once Sherlock was done being clever. But Sherlock considered him--a friend. He cared about him more than his _own brother_. Lestrade obviously hadn't been prepared for that news. 

"That being said..." Lestrade made a visible effort to rally himself. "Sherlock, this is all beside the point. You can't just use yourself as bait." 

"Why not?" Sherlock said placidly. 

"First of all, because my superiors would never go for it," Lestrade replied. "I've been known to fudge a lot of things for you, but as things stand right now, I can't be sure I'd get permission. In fact, I'm almost a hundred percent certain I'd be ordered to arrest you. _Again_ ," he added pointedly. 

"A moot point, if it successfully draws Moran into the open." 

"And _second_ of all," Lestrade said sharply, raising his voice a little, "I can't let you do it on a personal level. What if it doesn't work? What if Moran _does_ successfully kill you?" 

Sherlock frowned. "As I said..." 

"You're not without tricks, I know. But for God's sake, Sherlock, _think_ about the possibilities. _Think_ about what would happen if you died!" Lestrade gestured violently at John. "Do you _really_ think we could handle losing you again?" 

John swallowed hard when Sherlock looked at him, something changing in his face. "He's right, Sherlock," he said softly. "Please. It isn't worth your life." 

"But is it worth yours?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flashing with something that wasn't exactly anger, but was probably related. "You two both seem to have neglected the obvious, as usual. If Colonel Moran is aware of where I am, he will undoubtedly attempt to kill me _anyway_ , in much the same way he disposed of Ronald Adair. If he is _not_ aware that I'm back on Baker Street, he will attempt to draw me out. And the most logical way for him to draw me out is for him to injure, or kill, someone I care about--someone Moriarty had already threatened. I have no doubt he has those names. Which means either Mrs. Hudson, or one of you two." 

John glanced at Lestrade, mutely appealing. The thought had already occurred to him, of course, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn't accept any of his reassurances on his own behalf. Lestrade didn't seem to see, however. He planted both hands on the table and glared at Sherlock. 

"You think I decided to come over here on a whim?" he demanded angrily. "That I only met John at the clinic because I thought telling him about Moran's escape was something that ought to be done in person? I _know_ he and Mrs. Hudson are in danger. As a matter of fact, I always thought it was more likely that one of them would be the one Moran would go after, rather than you. You seem to think you're the only one who pays attention--the only one who can think more than five minutes ahead--the only one who cares. You're _not_ , Sherlock. You've got to admit that, as long as I've been part of the force, I do know a thing or two about criminals. And John's certainly learned his fair share working with you. We aren't stupid. We know what's going on." 

John was a little surprised by Lestrade's outburst, but the inspector wasn't finished. He took a deep breath and continued. "I'm doing my best. I've ordered increased patrol on Baker Street, and two plainclothes men have already been assigned to keep an eye on this place. One will follow Mrs. Hudson if she goes anywhere. One will follow John. But there's _nothing I can do for you_. Do you understand me? You're already supposed to be dead. I can't order a guard on you. And if you go out of here, if you go public with the fact that you're alive, it'll make it _impossible_ to keep an eye on you. You know what the media can be like. They'll confuse things so much that Moran could walk right up and shoot you at point-blank range, and we'd miss catching him because of all the cameras and notebooks in the way. More than that, I don't think you realise how much danger that'd put _John_ in." He turned to John. "Remember that jerk from the _Sun_? The one with the beard?" 

"Kevin Smythe," John said, nodding as he thought of the scruffy, dogged reporter. 

"How long did he hound you? Eight months?" 

"At least." To Sherlock, John explained, "Smythe was one of the reporters who showed up at the scene when you 'died.' He'd somehow found out--or figured out--that I'd been on the phone with you right before you jumped, and he kept asking me what you had said, what your last words were, all of that. When I finally managed to make it clear to him that it was none of his business, he changed tactics. Started asking what _I_ had said to _you_ , what my role in the whole thing was. He all but accused me of having a hand in your death." 

"He did _what?_ " Sherlock's voice was low and dangerous. 

"He couldn't print anything like that without proof, of course, but he kept saying stuff like that to get me to tell him what he wanted to know--saying that if I _hadn't_ talked you into jumping, or said something that made you kill yourself, surely I'd want to clear my name by telling him everything we'd talked about." John sighed. "If I'd been in my right mind it probably would have made me angry, but...I just tried to avoid him as much as possible. It mostly consisted of walking away as quickly as possible, since he was so persistent." 

"For eight months." 

John nodded. "The only reason he's not still hounding me is because he almost got me killed. I was crossing the street in front of the clinic--trying to get away from him--and then he asked me to comment on a letter he had received claiming that _I_ had been the one to hire an actor to play Moriarty. I stopped and turned around--I couldn't believe what I'd heard." He grew quiet for a moment, remembering. "I never saw the bus coming." 

"John!" Sherlock's face drained of all colour. 

"I wasn't hurt," John said quickly, looking up. "Not really. The bus slammed on its brakes when it saw me, and I managed to get mostly out of its way, so by the time it actually hit me the damage was fairly light." 

" _Fairly_ light?" Sherlock repeated, scanning John rapidly. 

"He was pretty scratched and bruised, including one just above his ankle that went all the way to the bone," Lestrade told him. "But it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Anyway, Smythe left him alone after that--I think it helped that the _Sun_ paid all of John's medical bills and took it out of Smythe's paycheck, plus read him the riot act big time." He frowned at Sherlock. "The point is that that was _one_ reporter who wanted to get a story. If you come out and admit you're alive, trying to draw Moran out, the press will swarm around John. _Again._ Which will simultaneously put him back in the spotlight, and put him in even more danger than before." 

Sherlock clenched his fists briefly, then sighed. "All right, you win. We'll play this your way. What do you want me to do?" 

Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his grey military cut. "For now, nothing. Stay inside, try to stay away from the windows. Try not to make it obvious you're here." 

John winced at the look on Sherlock's face. Most of his methods of occupying his time involved noises, smells, or extreme movement, all of which would make it obvious that he was there. He wasn't sure how Sherlock had made it through _one_ day incognito, let alone how he would make it for an indefinite period of time. 

"Hopefully this won't take too long," Lestrade continued, leading John to believe he had probably seen the look, too. "But _please_ , Sherlock, try to endure. For all our sakes." 

Sherlock sighed as well. "You have my word." 

Lestrade relaxed. "Thank you." 

John didn't say anything, but he gave Sherlock a grateful smile. Sherlock returned the smile, seeming to relax slightly. He then, in characteristic Sherlock fashion, changed the subject. "By the way, Lestrade, I was glad to see that you were able to keep yourself occupied while I was...indisposed." 

Lestrade chuckled, obviously relieved to be on safer ground. "I take it you're referring to those cases which made it into the press." 

"Of course. I was particularly impressed by the speed with which you solved the Igor Dyalovich case." 

"Of course that's the one that impressed you," Lestrade said, grinning. "Never would have solved that if it hadn't been for John." 

"Stop it, that's not true," John protested, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks again. 

Lestrade snorted. "Please. We wouldn't have even known we had a murder to investigate if it wasn't for you." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean? I thought a neighbour discovered the crime--a Ms. Karen Jacquish." 

"We kept a lot of details out of the press--a _lot_ of details," Lestrade explained. "But at first it looked like a suicide. All the forensics were consistent with suicide--powder burns, fingerprints, angle of entry--and situationally, it made sense. Dyalovich had no visitors, no friends that anyone could recall. Most of the people in his building didn't even know his name, they just knew him as the daft old fellow on the second floor who liked music. The flat was neglected, there was next to no food in the cupboards, and everything was either of very poor quality or at least fifty years old. It looked like classic depression, and like he'd culminated in suicide." 

"Go on," Sherlock prompted. "What led you to figure out it was murder?" 

Lestrade winked at John, who sighed, knowing he had lost any attempts to keep Sherlock from finding out the details. Not that he minded, per se, just that he preferred not to think about it too much. "It just so happened that I'd dragged John out for a pint the night Dyalovich was killed, so when I got the call to the scene, I persuaded him to come along with me. John's not like you, he doesn't prowl all over a crime scene getting in the way and mucking up evidence, but he trailed after me and looked at everything. The body was still where--as we thought--he'd shot himself, sitting at the piano in his flat. I was all set to sign it off as a suicide when John asked if he could test something out. He played a quick scale on the piano, then informed me that Dyalovich was murdered." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking at John. "You figured that out from a scale?" 

"Actually, I'd figured it out before I touched the keys," John confessed. "Just looking at the piano, I could tell that a lot of the assumptions we had made were inaccurate. The scale just confirmed my thinking." 

"Well, go on, tell him what you told me," Lestrade instructed, grinning. 

John spread out his hands. "We were assuming that Dyalovich was depressed, probably because he was old and lonely and broke. The fact that he was living in a run-down flat with very little to eat and most of his possessions held together with tape and a prayer seemed to bear that out. But the piano...it turned all of that on its head. For one thing, it was a Steinway, and at least a hundred years old. There wasn't a speck of dust on it--it was as pristine and polished as the day it came out of the factory. And then when I tested it out, it was obvious it had just been tuned in the past day or so--three at the outside. The constables looked, but there were no tuning tools in the flat, which meant Dyalovich had to have called in a professional. Which means he had more money than appeared on the surface. It was just that he didn't care about his day-to-day life, or the minutae of existence. His piano, his music, was what mattered." 

What John didn't add was that making that deduction had been almost physically painful, both because it wasn't really his job--Sherlock was the detective, he was just the blogger--and because his comments about Dyalovich had also been frighteningly applicable to Sherlock. Sherlock's work was the important thing, as he had shouted at John on a couple of occasions. It had been John's function to keep him from getting so wrapped up in his work that he forgot things like food, sleep, and pants. 

Sherlock's eyebrows inched further up his forehead. "So from just that, you determined he did not commit suicide. Perhaps his depression manifested itself differently." 

"Yes, but you're forgetting--he was found _at the piano_." John stressed the last three words with individual raps on the table. "And the bullet had passed right through his skull, which of course it would have. But once it left his skull, it went into the piano, down at the end near the lowest octave. It went into the body of the piano and lodged between a couple of strings. Dyalovich might have killed himself, but he would _never_ have injured that piano. No way would he have been ignorant of the fact that shooting himself at the piano might have damaged it. He would have shot himself in the bedroom, or--or hanged himself, or something. He _had_ to have been murdered." 

"Once we had that, of course, the whole thing came together quickly," Lestrade told Sherlock. "It turned out that Dyalovich had been a concert pianist in his day, and he'd made a number of recordings under a stage name that was easier for English tongues to pronounce than 'Dyalovich.' He was making nearly fifty thousand pounds a year on royalties, and what he didn't spend on his piano, or the little he needed to survive, he saved. He'd left every penny to his one and only granddaughter. Over the years he'd been giving her a monthly allowance for piano lessons, because she told him she was going to be a concert pianist herself. Apparently he'd learned that she wasn't even taking lessons, that she was gambling the money he gave her each month away and working as a nightclub singer, and threatened to cut her out of his will. She panicked and murdered him before he could do it. When we caught up to her, she broke down immediately. Case closed." 

Sherlock smiled. "Very cleverly done." 

"As I said, we would never have solved it without John." 

Sherlock flickered his gaze over John. "When I asked you what you had been doing in my absence, you didn't mention that you had helped solve crimes," he observed. "Even if it was only that once." 

Lestrade huffed. "Who said it was only that once? He doesn't constantly put himself in our way like you do, but he's got brains worth picking. Most of the cases I've been involved with over the last three years that've made the papers, he's helped us out, even if it's just by listening to the evidence and figuring out connections." 

"You hardly need me, then," Sherlock laughed, but John saw a momentary flash of fear in his eyes. 

"Sherlock, of course we do," John said quickly. "I may have picked up a thing or two about observation and deduction from working with you, but there's more to it than that, you know that. I can't read people half so well as you can, for one--I may be able to tell what they're thinking, but you can read a man's whole life history in the slight callouses on the edges of his fingers. And where would we be without your scientific knowledge? You can analyse unknown substances better and more quickly than anyone else I know of. Take the Hiram Sands case, now. The police forensics lab took, what, three weeks to isolate the toxin that killed him? _You'd_ have solved it in an afternoon." 

Ordinarily, John would never have said all that. His admiration for his friend was genuine, of course, but Sherlock didn't have an ounce of humility, and John usually tried to keep from inflating his ego. This was different, though. Sherlock really believed he was unnecessary--the look of fear wasn't feigned. John had to show him that he wasn't, not by a long chalk. 

It worked. Sherlock visibly relaxed, although, in typical Sherlock fashion, he neither thanked John for the praise nor attempted to be humble. "Really, Lestrade? Three weeks? Who did you have on it, Anderson?" 

John snorted. The conversation moved into more neutral territory after that, and all three men were calmer when Lestrade at last rose to go. "John, do you have anywhere you have to go tomorrow?" 

"N--" John began, then stopped. Yes, damn it, he'd almost forgotten. "I have a lesson at two, but other than that, no." 

Lestrade hesitated. "Can you walk there?" 

John nodded. "I had planned on it. It's not that far." 

"Good. I'll have someone shadow you, just to be on the safe side. Call if anything happens." 

"I will. 'Night, Greg," John said with a smile. 

Sherlock waited until the door closed behind Lestrade, then turned to John with a slight frown. "Does this 'lesson' have to do with your hobby?" 

"Yes," John answered. He didn't elaborate. Let Sherlock ask if he was really curious. 

He didn't, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. Sherlock was probably so used to people telling him everything in the belief that he already knew all their secrets that he wasn't used to having to pry for them. He probably assumed that John was going to continue, and might even have been surprised that he wasn't, but he'd never show it. 

After a few moments of silence, John studied Sherlock. "So what did you do all day?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "Prowled around the flat a bit. Cleaned out my chemistry set. Tried not to be bored out of my skull." 

John winced. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really I am. I know..." He trailed off and bit his lip. There was nothing he could say that would make this easier to handle. 

Sherlock studied John seriously. "I hope I didn't offend you when I expressed surprise that you were helping Lestrade with his investigations," he said slowly. "I simply found it difficult to believe that you would be able to assist and not have it end up in all the newspapers." 

"Lestrade did everything in his power to keep that from happening," John told him. He stood and began gathering the dishes. "I had a hard enough time dealing with the press after you jumped off the roof, when they _weren't_ focused on me. If they _had_ been focusing on me, it would've been a million times worse." 

Sherlock, to John's mild surprise, began gathering up the leftovers. "You don't enjoy the notoriety?" 

"I never did." 

"But your blog--" 

"Was never about me," John said firmly. He turned on the taps and reached for the dish soap. "It was supposed to help me through my PTSD, remember? I never expected anyone other than my therapist to actually read it. And once they did...well, it was a way of making a living, that was all." 

Sherlock shook his head as he put away the remains of the food. "How did you manage to avoid getting your name in the papers?" 

"I don't go to the actual crime scenes very often," John said. "Perhaps once in twelve cases. Most of the help I gave Lestrade was more...sedentary. He tells me all the details he's gathered so far, and I interpret as best as I can. Like I did with the Ronald Adair case." 

"So the press never knows you're there. You get no notoriety, no recognition." 

John smiled. "What was it you said once? _L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout."_

"John, what a memory." Sherlock smiled slightly, but it faded quickly. "Are you all right?" 

The question startled John, but then he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window and winced. "Just tired. It's been a long day. I probably ought to get to bed." 

"Good idea." Sherlock took the dishes out of John's hands and set them in the drying rack. "Good night, John." 

"'Night, Sherlock." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line " _L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout"_ is actually from one of the original ACD stories, although I cannot at this precise moment recall which one. It translates to "The man is nothing--the work is everything."


	5. Many a New Day

Sherlock was not in evidence the next morning, which John considered a return to normalcy. Save while he was working a case, when he not infrequently stayed up all night, he was not an early riser. John cherished his mornings, often the only time he had to himself--or he had, when it had just been solitude and not loneliness he faced. He wasn't yet used to the knowledge that he wouldn't have to spend the whole day alone. 

He brewed himself his first cup of tea and leaned his hip against the sink, as usual, assessing his day. May seventeenth. Thursday. His lesson wasn't until two--maybe he'd bring his cane along, if he was going to be walking both ways. He knew why Lestrade had requested that; with Moran on the loose, he would be harder to protect on the Tube. Walking, an officer could keep him in sight. He had intended to walk at least one way, but if he would be walking both ways...yes, he'd definitely use his cane. The limp wasn't psychosomatic anymore, not since Kevin Smythe had hounded him in front of a bus, but it was intermittent and usually only happened when he was tired, or over-using the leg. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He was even more surprised to see that he had a text from Harry. It simply read, _Gud Syttende Mai! Husker du?_

John laughed in delight and no little amazement. He plucked the correct words from his mind and texted back, _Ja, ja. Bestemor ville være stolte._

Bestemor--their father's mother--had been Norwegian, severely proper and traditional, and she had insisted on teaching her grandchildren her native tongue. Amazing how some lessons stuck with you. _Syttende Mai_ \--May seventeenth--was the Norwegian Constitution Day. When they were younger, Harry and John had competed to see who would be the first to wish the other a happy _Syttende Mai_ , and often would try to go a whole day without speaking in English. Like so many other things, however, it had fallen by the wayside when Harry began her downward spiral into alcoholism. 

_Husker du?_ Do you remember? Yes, John remembered. And he knew he was right in what he had texted his sister: their grandmother would have been proud. It was good to see that Harry still remembered their old tradition--and the old language. 

As the confirmation message flashed on his screen, he glanced at the time. Eight-fifteen. He'd give it a bit more time before he called his _mother's_ parents to wish them a happy anniversary. They were both early risers, but still, he should let them have time to finish breakfast first. 

He got another text from Harry and drained the last of his cup as he checked it. _Tusen takk, lille bror. Jeg ville ikke glemme våre andre besteforeldre._

It took John a little bit of time to decipher the message, only because his Norwegian was rusty, but he smiled, pleased that Harry had remembered the anniversary as well. 

They exchanged a couple more texts in Norwegian as John had his second cup, then signed off after wishing one another a _gud Syttende Mai_ again. It was eight-fifty by then. He dialed a number that hadn't changed since the phone was installed and waited through the usual three rings. At last, a polished, well-remembered voice answered. "MacIsaac residence, how may I assist you?" 

"Albert, it's John," John said, leaning on the counter again and conjuring up the memory of the elderly, bald butler. "May I speak to my grandparents, please?" 

"One moment, Master John." 

John fixed himself a third cup of tea as he waited. Then a voice said excitedly, "Hello? Hello?" 

"Hello, Grandmother," John said, smiling fondly. "Happy anniversary." 

"Johnny, dear!" His grandmother's voice was a melodic alto with a heavy Scottish burr, scarcely changed by the years. If John closed his eyes, he could almost see her: small and birdlike with snow-white hair and cornflower blue eyes. "How sweet of you to remember!" 

_Do I ever forget?_ John wanted to ask, but didn't. "How are you?" 

"Oh, I can't complain, dear." 

"I bet you could." 

His grandmother--known to most as Lady Cairis--laughed. "Truly, I'm feeling wonderful. The weather has been just lovely. I've even been able to go out onto the porch and do some embroidery. My joints aren't hurting, my eyes are still clear, and I've had the love of a good man for fifty-eight years. What is there to complain about?" 

John smiled. _Fifty-eight years_...yes, that made sense. His mother would have been fifty-seven in September, had she not... _no_. The smile vanished from his face as he thought about his mother's death, something he usually tried to block out of his mind. He forced himself to try and push it aside. After all, she'd been his grandparents' only daughter and oldest child. They didn't need to think about that. Not today. 

"How are things with you, dear?" Lady Cairis's voice cut into his thoughts. 

"Hmm?" John brought himself back to reality. "Oh, I'm...I'm doing just fine." 

"Johnny," Lady Cairis said severely. "This is your grandmother you're speaking to. You know you can't get away with that nonsense. What have you done this week?" 

John shrugged, even though his grandmother couldn't see him. "The usual, I suppose. Worked at the clinic Monday and yesterday. Had my lesson Tuesday afternoon..." 

"Are you going to be in the spring exhibition?" Lady Cairis interrupted. 

John hesitated. Since he had started taking lessons again, he had steadfastly resisted all attempts by his teacher to get him to show off in public. Partly it was what he had told Sherlock the night before--that he really disliked being in the public eye. Partly it was that this was something that, to him, was intensely personal. He put a lot of himself into what he did, and he was reluctant to share it with anyone. And now that Sherlock was back, he wasn't even sure how much longer he would be continuing his lessons. They had been an escape from reality. He didn't need that anymore. 

"I don't think so," he said at last. "Mrs. Eppleman is still trying to convince me, but I'm resisting as much as I can. I just...you _know_ I don't like performing in public, Grandmother." 

"I know, dear." Lady Cairis sighed. "Well, have you seen anyone? Other than your teacher and your patients, I mean." 

John knew exactly what she meant: _Have you been socialising?_ Careful not to mention Sherlock's return, he said, "Yes, Grandmother. I went out for a pint with Greg Lestrade on Monday night. Yesterday he gave me a lift home from the clinic and we had takeaway and a chat. And Tuesday I had lunch with Harry." 

"Oh, how is she doing?" 

John was silent. The answer was _terrible_. She usually showed up either drunk or hung over to their monthly meetings. Tuesday she had looked even worse than usual, her hair a mess, her clothes looking as though she hadn't washed them in ages, her eyes bloodshot, and she'd been shaking like crazy, leading John to believe she'd started drinking but hadn't yet had as many as she needed to be functioning, up to a point. 

"Well, she texted me this morning," he said hesitantly. "She remembered it was _Syttende Mai_. And she said she'd be calling you later today." 

Lady Cairis seemed to understand. "Good. I look forward to hearing from her." With her usual tact, she changed the subject. "By the way, I'm almost done with a project for you." 

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows. 

"Yes...I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but you know how my arthritis is. And the design was so detailed. Maybe I should have chosen a simpler one, but I never could go the easy route. So it's taken me almost three years. But I ought to be finished by the middle of the summer, at the latest." 

John smiled a little, although he felt a pang in his stomach. His grandmother's "projects" were samplers, mottos and proverbs and quotes that she embroidered with artwork and framed on her wall whenever someone in the family was going through a rough time. She'd even done one after John's mother's death, although it had taken her almost twice as long as usual, probably because it was to help herself as well as her grandchildren. He realised that she had started making one to help him with Sherlock's death. Maybe it would have helped...if she had finished before he knew Sherlock was alive. 

"What's the proverb?" he asked. 

Lady Cairis laughed. "If I tell you, you'll have no reason to come and visit me." 

"Grandmother, I don't need a reason to come visit you." 

"And yet, you haven't been to see me since you came back from the war." 

John winced. "I've been busy," he mumbled lamely. 

"And hiding yourself from the world," Lady Cairis said sternly. "You can't fool your grandmother, Johnny. I know what Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is. You were suffering from it when you came back from Afghanistan with a limp and a tremour in your hand, and you've been suffering from it since you lost your friend." Her voice softened. "I know you don't want to expose us to that, but honestly, Johnny, it might do you good to get out of London for a bit. There are an awful lot of memories there." 

"I considered it," John admitted. "But...I guess I'm stubborn. I don't want to leave the memories. I don't want to forget." 

"I understand," Lady Cairis said. "Henry and Louisa both died in this house, you know." 

John closed his eyes and swallowed hard at the mention of his mother and uncle, who had both died far too young. "I know." 

There was silence on the line for a moment. Finally, Lady Cairis spoke. "I'm sorry, dear. We shouldn't be talking about this. Not today of all days. Come on, let's think of a happier topic. Have you been dating anyone lately?" 

John couldn't help but laugh. "No, I haven't. Not really been in the mood for romance. Harry and Greg have been about the extent of my social life." 

"You really ought to come up and visit. I saw Emily Maddox the other day, and we had a bit of a chat about you. You know, she's a dear, sweet girl and a hard worker..." 

"Didn't she marry Peter Farrow a couple years ago?" 

"No, dear, that was her sister Rachel. Emily's the younger one." 

John laughed again. "Grandmother, as much as I appreciate the suggestion, I don't need a matchmaker." 

Lady Cairis laughed as well. "Dear, I'm seventy-six years old. If I'm going to have great-grandchildren in my lifetime, I need them soon." 

"You'll outlive us all." 

"Aren't you sweet." 

Sherlock came into the kitchen at that point, yawning and stretching. He seemed about to say something, but stopped when he saw John on the phone. John smiled and mouthed Morning at him before replying to his grandmother. "It's true, you know. Trust me. I'm a doctor." 

"Are you qualified to make diagnoses over the phone now?" Lady Cairis challenged. 

"With you, always." John reached for the tea kettle. 

Lady Cairis laughed. "Well, perhaps. Ah, well, I should probably let you go. I'm sorry your grandfather isn't here to talk to you, but there was a minor crisis in the village and he's gone to deal with that. Would you like him to call you when he gets back?" 

John smiled a little. "No, that's all right. Just tender my love." 

"Of course, dear. It was lovely to hear your voice again. And remember what I said about coming to visit." 

"I will. Call me when you finish that project. I'd love to see it." 

"I'm sure you will. I love you, dear." 

"I love you too. Goodbye." 

"Goodbye, Johnny." 

John ended the call, pocketed his phone, and handed Sherlock the cup of tea he had started brewing as soon as his friend walked in. "Morning, Sherlock." 

"Morning." Sherlock frowned slightly in the general direction of John's pocket. "Your latest girlfriend?" 

John shook his head, a little amused. "My grandmother. It's her wedding anniversary." 

Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock relax fractionally? "Ah. Well, many congratulations to her. I presume that the person to whom you asked her to tender your love was your grandfather?" 

"Yeah. He was dealing with a 'minor crisis' in the village." 

"He has some official capacity there, then?" 

"He's the squire." 

Sherlock nodded and sipped at his tea. He seemed surprised. "You remembered how I like it." 

"You expected I did, or you would have reached for the sugar before tasting it," John noted. 

"Force of habit, I suppose." Sherlock smiled. "What anniversary is this? For your grandparents, I mean?" 

"Fifty-eight." 

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. " _Fifty-eight?_ Frankly, that surprises me. I didn't think it was possible to stay with the same person for that many years." 

"Grandfather used to say that it was because they were raised at a time when you fixed what was broken rather than throwing it away," John said, chuckling. 

" _Used_ to say?" Sherlock repeated. "He doesn't say it anymore?" 

"No, not since my parents--" John stopped. He remembered the look on his grandfather's face, that morning more than twenty years before. 

Sherlock gave John a sharp look. "Your parents are divorced?" 

"In the first place, they are both deceased," John said levelly. "In the second place, no. My mother planned to file for divorce, but her death precluded that." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sherlock murmured. "What killed her?" 

"Lead poisoning," John said, slightly sarcastically. 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "Unusual, in this day and age, but not unheard of, I suppose," he said. 

John suppressed a sigh. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to get it. If he was honest with himself, that was probably why he had phrased it the way he had. 

Sherlock sipped at his tea again and changed the subject. "What time do you have to leave for your lesson?" 

"Since I'm walking, around one. I like to give myself plenty of time, especially if my leg starts bothering me." 

Sherlock frowned. "I observed last night that you've been using your cane again." 

John flushed a little. "Well, only sometimes." 

"I should have come back sooner," Sherlock mumbled, so indistinctly John wasn't sure he'd heard properly. 

He decided to act as though Sherlock had said nothing. "Truthfully, the bruised bone didn't heal properly. There may have been a hairline fracture we didn't detect. It still aches a bit when I use it too much, or when it rains." 

"If I ever meet this Kevin Smythe, I am going to hang him from the ceiling by his thumbs." 

"He lost his job," John assured Sherlock. "I wasn't the only subject he hounded into insensibility. He was becoming an embarrassment to the paper." 

"And when the paper is embarrassed, you know you've gone too far," Sherlock replied dryly. 

"Was that a _joke_?" John grinned. 

"I do make them on occasion," Sherlock replied with an answering smile. 

_This_ was what John had missed. The lighthearted banter, the camaraderie, the general feeling of _rightness_ that he felt when he and Sherlock did something banal like sharing a cup of tea in the mornings or eating out at Angelo's. He enjoyed the darker, more dangerous parts, too, in a perverse way, but it was the fleeting moments of normalcy, those rare occasions when Sherlock revealed his humanity, that John had lived for. Times when it was just the two of them, or-- 

"Oh, God," he said aloud, his smile fading as a thought suddenly occurred to him. 

Sherlock's smile faded as well. "What is it?" 

"Mrs. Hudson." 

Sherlock paled, and John realised that what had just occurred to him had also only just occurred to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had mothered them both since they moved in. She'd been nearly as devastated by his death as John had been. She was better at acting as though she was all right than he was, but at the same time, John knew she was still grieving. And on the rare occasions they discussed it, she had made it implicit that, unlike John, she could not entertain the possibility that Sherlock was still alive. In fact, he suspected that that, more than the actual threat of burglary, had been why she had changed the locks. Despite that, she would be overjoyed at finding Sherlock alive. 

But she didn't know. And they had promised Lestrade not to tell anyone. Did Mrs. Hudson count as "anyone," or had Lestrade assumed she already knew? She wasn't an easy woman to fool, after all. 

"It doesn't seem fair not to tell her you're back," John said slowly. 

"No," Sherlock agreed. "And she is the soul of discretion--she would never betray my presence. But we promised Lestrade." 

John rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't think it occurred to him that she didn't know, honestly. But you're right." 

He saw the slight flicker in Sherlock's eyes and suddenly wondered how many times over the last thirty-five months he had heard those two words. Being right had always been the most important thing in the world to Sherlock, and John knew it had taken a lot out of him, claiming to be a fake. John usually tried not to say it more often than necessary--it went along with trying not to overinflate Sherlock's ego--but there were definitely times it was important. 

"John, how many cups of tea have you had today?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly. 

John, who had been in the act of making another cup, paused. "This is my fifth, why?" 

"Have you eaten anything?" 

"I've only been up for an hour." 

"John." 

John couldn't help but smile. "Isn't that my job? Nagging you about not eating?" 

Sherlock didn't return the smile. "I'd be more inclined to take you seriously if you ate something yourself." 

In the end, John fried some eggs and bacon, and he and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and ate, and it was a good deal like old times. The biggest difference was that, when they were finished, Sherlock actually started helping John clean up. 

"Where did this come from?" John asked as he rinsed off his plate. 

"What?" Sherlock looked confused. 

"This sudden rash of helpfulness. Not that I want to jinx it by pointing it out, but it was always one of the things that irritated me, that you would leave me up to my elbows in dishwater and run off to do a chemistry experiment or decorate the wall with bullets or play some insanely complex piece on your violin." John smiled to take the sting out of his words. 

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps it's that most of those things involve smells or sounds, and as I'm not supposed to be here, I can't do them." He studied John for a moment. "Perhaps it's merely an excuse to spend as much time with you as possible. I've missed you, John." 

John felt an unexpected lump in his throat. He'd never expected Sherlock to admit that. "I've missed you, too." 

Sherlock smiled slightly, then, in typical Sherlock fashion, changed the subject. "When did you start reading paperback books?" 

Since John kept all of his paperbacks in boxes under his bed, except for the three or four he had read most recently, which were on his nightstand, it crossed his mind to deliver the usual lecture on respecting boundaries. But he didn't bother. It wasn't as though he had anything to be ashamed of in his room (he'd dropped most of those habits as soon as he realised Sherlock would discover them immediately--and as soon as he realised just how much he minded Sherlock knowing about them, even if _he_ didn't seem to care). "I read hardcovers when I'm home. I read paperbacks when I'm on the go. They're more portable. And I've been spending a good deal of time out of the flat, so I suppose I've been reading more paperbacks lately." He shrugged. "Besides, there are some books you can't get as hardcover." 

"Often of lower quality. What one used to call 'dime-store paperbacks.'" 

"Occasionally, yes. But others were just never issued as hardcovers, or aren't issued as hardcovers anymore. Paperbacks are cheaper to make as well as to purchase, so they sell better. Most bookstores only sell hardcover copies of new releases. And with used bookstores, you never know what you're going to find." John shook his head. "I don't think they ever issued a hardcover copy of _The Princess Bride_ \--or if they did, I've never seen one. Just as an example." 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Merely from the title, I must say that it doesn't sound like your usual genre." 

"It's quite a good story," John told him. "'Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...'" He knew full well that Sherlock would have no idea he was quoting the movie, and he sort of enjoyed the private joke, even though it was so private that only he knew about it. 

At the word _miracles_ , Sherlock's expression changed, so briefly John wondered if he had imagined it. His voice, however, was perfectly normal. "And the other book I noticed on your nightstand-- _Watership Down_? It had a rabbit on the cover, John. A _rabbit_. Are they really that fascinating?" 

John hesitated. " _Watership Down_ is only...loosely about rabbits. Richard Adams was a soldier, in World War II, I believe. The main character is based on one of the men he served with. Yes, they're rabbits that can speak--to one another, at any rate--but they don't wear waistcoats or fly aeroplanes or any of that rubbish. They're just...rabbits. It's really more of a war story than anything. And it's one of my favourite books." He gestured vaguely towards the living room. "I have a hardcover copy as well." 

"I'm not certain it's necessary to have multiple copies of one book." 

"One to read at home, one to read on the go." 

"Do you always have an answer for everything?" 

"No," John said honestly. "Just this." 

He put the last of the dishes away and glanced at the kitchen clock. It was almost eleven. "I'd probably better get dressed," he murmured, suddenly realising he was still in his dressing gown. Another habit he'd have to re-break. He tended to put off getting dressed until absolutely necessary, like he'd done when he'd first returned from Afghanistan. 

Sherlock eyed him, but said nothing. John headed to his room. For the first time, he realised just how long it had been since he'd done a decent load of laundry. He had perhaps three clean shirts and two pairs of pants. A pang hit him. Letting the cupboards run empty. Eating one meal a day, at best. Putting off laundry until the last possible minute. Reading paperback books because he spent so little time actually in the flat, even though he couldn't bear to leave it for long. Sleeping like hell. God, had he really been _that_ damaged? 

Of course he had. It wasn't any different than when he'd first come back from Afghanistan, wounded, psychologically scarred and suffering from PTSD. Losing Sherlock had torn open wounds he'd thought safely healed. He should have known better. 

Tears sprung to his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, put his face in his hands, and let himself cry--with relief for Sherlock's safe return, but also with bitter pain, for what he had lost in Afghanistan, what he'd lost on the roof of that hospital, and what he stood to lose again. Because life with Sherlock was always going to be dangerous. He knew that. He'd always known that. But now that he'd lost Sherlock once, he didn't know that he'd be able to stand it if he lost him again. 

At last, his tears subsided. He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and got dressed. Before he went downstairs, he took a look in the bathroom mirror. There weren't any visible signs that he'd been crying...well, other than the fact that he'd been gone much longer than necessary. A glance at his watch confirmed that it was just past noon. 

Sherlock did give him a rather sharp glance when he entered the living room, but said nothing. He merely lay back down on the sofa, his hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling. John picked up his laptop and powered it on. 

No new email, no new comments on his blog. There was an article mentioning Moran's escape, and he read it quickly, relieved that it didn't mention either him or Sherlock. Lestrade was keeping his promise so far. At last, he sighed and shut the laptop down, then set it aside and got out of his chair. 

Both men remained silent as John picked up his case, then pocketed his keys and retrieved his cane. He was preparing to say goodbye when Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks. 

"What does 'BAP' stand for?" 

John turned to look at Sherlock. He was still lying on the couch, but he was watching John out of the corner of one eye. "What?" 

"There is a folder on your laptop labeled 'BAP,'" Sherlock said, sitting up. "I assume, as it was written in all capital letters, that it stands for something." 

Again, John considered that lecture on personal boundaries, but he knew it would do no good. Not unless he told Sherlock why it bothered him so much, and that was something he couldn't bring himself to say. He settled for answering the question. "'Bloody Awful Poetry.'" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. "Your guilty pleasure poems?" 

"No," John answered. "Poems I like that were written by other people are collected in a single document labeled 'Poetry.' I'm sure you've seen it. That folder is poetry I wrote." 

"I noticed it was password-protected." 

"Lestrade had to borrow my laptop a couple months ago. I didn't want him to accidentally stumble across the poems." There weren't very many poems, but there were a few--ones he'd written on dark evenings in a fit of emotion. They were intensely personal to John. He'd called the folder "Bloody Awful Poetry," not because he thought it was _that_ bad, but because the alternative was "Things Unsaid." 

"What _is_ the password to it?" Sherlock asked casually, as though the answer was of little consequence, but he glanced at the laptop as he did so. 

John paused. It wouldn't necessarily do any harm to tell him, but..."I'm sure it won't take you long to figure out, Sherlock. You usually do." He opened the door. "I'll see you in three hours."


	6. When Words Cannot

Mrs. Hudson wasn't out when John passed her door, a fact for which he was thankful. He wasn't sure he could keep himself from blurting out that Sherlock was alive and well--partly to make her happy and partly to excuse any odd noises she may hear. But she wasn't visible, and so he was able to make his way to the street without incident. 

As he headed down the street, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Lestrade had kept his word even further. There was a plainclothes officer casually keeping pace with him. At least, John sincerely hoped it was a plainclothes officer and not Colonel Moran, or one of his associates. John had his cell phone with him, and could call for help if necessary, but calling for help depended upon his not being incapacitated. The journey was made without incident, however. 

John arrived twenty minutes early, which wasn't that surprising; he'd left himself an hour to be safe, but that was more than sufficient. He knew better than to ring the bell and disturb Mrs. Eppleman or whoever her current student was, so he simply opened the door and went upstairs to practice. 

Fifteen minutes later, he descended again. A pigtailed girl in very expensive-looking clothes, carrying a leather case, was just leaving. Mrs. Eppleman waved at her, closed the door behind her, and shot John an exasperated look. "All money and no talent," she said in a rich Russian accent. "Come, Ivshka. Make me feel better." 

John followed his teacher into the lesson room. There was no window and no decoration, only a light, a mirror, a clock, and a baby grand piano, its lid closed. Mrs. Eppleman propped it open. "Begin," she ordered. 

John sat down. His fingers rested lightly on the keys for a moment, and then he began playing his scales and arpeggios. The music, even of those simple exercises, swirled around him, and he was perfectly content.

* * *

John had started taking piano lessons at age seven. His mother had signed him up in hopes that it would improve his handwriting (even back then, she'd remarked desparingly to his father that he would probably grow up to be a doctor, his penmanship was so bad). She had--somehow--found Irina Eppleman, a middle-aged Russian emigrant who had been a concert pianist in her teens and twenties, then gotten married and retired. 

Mrs. Eppleman was choosy about her students. She could--and did--command extremely high prices for her lessons. She could also afford to teach for free, and did that as well on occasion, if a student had either unusual talent or a willingness to work hard. At first, John had been one of the latter--a "scholarship" student (his parents were decidedly middle-class) who was studious and conscientious. But within a month, Mrs. Eppleman had started calling him Ivshka--the Russian diminuitive of John--and referred to him as one of her top students. 

After five years of lessons, Mrs. Eppleman allowed her students to choose to be "generalists" or "specialists." Specialists focused on one particular type of music--classical, jazz, folk, or pop. John was a generalist. He played a bit of everything. His signature piece was Pachelbel's "Canon in D", but his final two pieces before he'd gone into the Army had been Bette Midler's "The Rose" and a folk song called "The Cruel War." 

Today, once he had finished his finger exercises, Mrs. Eppleman instructed him, "Today I wish you to play 'Hallelujah.' Let me hear how you have improved." 

Obediently, John began playing. The piano part was a fairly simple one, except that the rhythm was straight triples while the vocal part was more syncopated. 

He'd chosen the song two months before because the lyrics, especially the middle verses, reminded him of Sherlock. Usually, music was an escape for him; while he was playing, or singing, he was he was able to forget everything else. Nothing existed but him and the music. Since he had started his lessons in order to forget his pain over losing Sherlock, it was odd for him to have chosen a piece that deliberately reminded him of his friend, but he'd considered it something he needed to do to help him heal. 

Of course, he hadn't told Mrs. Eppleman that, any more than he'd told her that the first piece he'd chosen, the one that she'd been trying to get him to do in a concert for the last two and a half years, had been chosen for Sherlock. But both pieces had impressed her with, as she said, the "depth of feeling" he put into them. 

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Eppleman said as John finished the piece. "Always you play so beautifully, Ivshka. Now. Still you have a waver in the third verse. Start again. _Maybe I have been here before..."_

John took a deep breath and complied. Mrs. Eppleman made him play that verse five times before he was able to do it without a tremour, and then another ten times to make sure he had nailed it, before she told him to play the whole piece again. At last, she let him move on to another piece. 

At the end of his ninety-minute lesson, he felt his usual sense of peace. The music relaxed him, cleared his mind, and he was usually able to at least get to sleep quickly on Tuesdays and Thursdays, even if he rarely stayed that way long. He smiled up at his teacher as he packed his music. "Thank you, Mrs. Eppleman." 

"Of course, Ivshka." Mrs. Eppleman smiled back. "Come, let us have tea together. I have no other students for three hours." 

John hesitated. "I'd love to, really," he said slowly, "but I promised my friend I'd head straight home when my lesson was over." 

"You tell me that you live alone," Mrs. Eppleman pointed out, looking disappointed. "Who will know?" 

John bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Eppleman. I just can't. Not today." 

Mrs. Eppleman sighed. "Fine. I understand. Perhaps on Tuesday. That will give you time to warn your friend." She walked John to the door. He turned and waved, smiling to take the sting out of his refusal, then started for home. 

A few blocks away, his leg gave a sudden twinge, and he realised he'd forgotten his cane at Mrs. Eppleman's. Grumbling to himself, he turned and headed back the way he'd came. 

Mrs. Eppleman seemed surprised and delighted to see him when he reappeared. "So! You have changed your mind, then?" 

"Sorry, Mrs. Eppleman, I forgot my cane, that's all," John replied with a smile, picking up the silver-handled stick. 

Mrs. Eppleman frowned. "You are young, Ivshka. Surely you have no need of a cane." 

Understandable, as he'd never brought one to lessons before. There was a station for the London Underground less than two blocks from the three townhouses Mrs. Eppleman had knocked together into one, so he usually didn't need it. "I have a war injury," he said, which was only partially true but at least covered the reason he'd had the cane initially. 

"Why did you never tell me?" Mrs. Eppleman looked shocked. "You were hurt in the war?" 

John nodded. "It, er, it never seemed important." He gripped the head of the cane. "Anyway, I'd better get going. I'm late as it is." 

Mrs. Eppleman saw him to the door again. John leaned heavily on his cane as he limped away down the street. 

Because of the limp, it took him a bit longer to get home than it had to get to Mrs. Eppleman's. He glanced at his watch as he unlocked the front door--it was quarter to five. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't done anything _too_ terribly stupid. 

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door as he passed. "There you are, John. How was your day?" 

John stopped and smiled. "Just fine, Mrs. Hudson. How was yours?" 

"Not too bad. I half-fancied I heard something upstairs earlier, but it must have been my imagination." Mrs. Hudson gave John a quizzical look. "You left around one, didn't you?" 

John nodded. "It was such a nice day, I thought I'd walk." 

"Both ways?" Mrs. Hudson frowned at John's cane, then back at him. "You should have taken the Underground home, dear. Or a taxi. You've tired yourself out." 

"Lestrade asked me to walk," John admitted. "It's...complicated." 

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. "Oh, dear. The Ronald Adair case? I read in the paper today that his murderer had escaped." 

John had long ago given up being surprised at his landlady's insights. He wasn't sure if it was prolonged exposure to Sherlock Holmes that made you more adept at observation and deduction, or if Sherlock simply chose his associates based on a deductive bent. "Yeah. I can't--really talk about it, but yes. There's a constable keeping an eye on me, but he can't watch me if I'm using public transportation. At least, not as easily." 

"I suppose there's one keeping an eye on me as well," Mrs. Hudson said shrewdly. 

"According to Lestrade, yes." 

"I'll be careful, then. You, too, dear." Mrs. Hudson reached over and put a hand on John's shoulder. Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes, which startled him. 

"Mrs. Hudson?" he said, a little uncertainly. 

Mrs. Hudson moved forward and hugged John tightly. He hugged her back, his cane and music case slipping from his hands as he did so. 

"I've already lost Sherlock," she said softly. "I can't lose you, too." 

John tightened his embrace. "I'll be careful," he promised. "I don't want to lose you, either." 

"You're all I have left." 

John felt more like a heel than ever. He _wasn't_ all she had left. She deserved to know Sherlock was still alive. But he had promised Lestrade he wouldn't tell anyone--not even her. "I promise, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take the utmost care. I won't go anywhere unless I absolutely have to, and I'll make sure to keep in visual contact with the officer. But _please_ , Mrs. Hudson--you need to be careful, too." He stepped back and regarded her seriously. "I've been selfish these last three years, and I'm really sorry about that. But you're...you're incredibly important to me. I don't have anyone else. I should have told you that sooner." 

"I knew, dear." Mrs. Hudson managed a smile and touched John's cheek lightly, then bent and picked up his things. "We'll be careful for each other. And when I see that Inspector Lestrade, I am going to give him _such_ a piece of my mind." 

John couldn't help but smile. "I'd pay real money to see that." 

"Because I like you, I'll let you in for free." Mrs. Hudson laughed lightly. "Why don't you come down for supper tonight? It'll be a bit late, but I could make my famous rolladen in red wine sauce." 

"Can I take a rain check?" John asked, wincing inwardly. "I'm...kind of tired tonight. I thought I'd have a sandwich, soak my leg in the tub, and turn in early." He really hated lying to Mrs. Hudson, and he wasn't too sure she believed him. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Of course, John. You have a half-day at the clinic tomorrow, right? I'll see you in the morning. Good night." 

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."


End file.
